The questioning continues

“Donacella Castellano,” I cup her soft cheek with the palm of my hand in a way that might be interpreted as caring under other situations. Under the circumstances detailed by my imaginative young tenant however, it is an act of licentious liberty and a prelude to things that will become far far worse for the innocent senorita. “you are young still and your soul might still be saved through the grace of Our Lord. Confess your sins, child and allow me to drive out the devil that has corrupted your flesh.”

“Please Your Eminence!” Alison's voice rises in a wail of frustration and fear pulling on her chains desperately, “I am a pure and humble servant of Mary; what few sins I have are Venial and I absolve myself every week with Padre Morrelli before Sunday Mass. I swear this by the Holy Virgin herself.”

“I want to believe you, my sweet.” I brush her cheek with my thumb, savoring the feeling of her soft smooth skin. “I have however, personally spoken to an eye-witness who swears by the same Holy Mother that you have been tempting him with your libertine flirtations.” Even today there are men who blame their own weakness on the way young woman dress, move or smile; I do not doubt for a second that during the rise of the Spanish Inquisition that more than one lovely 'witch' or 'Jewess' faced this kind of accusation. My tone hardens suddenly, no more kindly Uncle; I am once again the battle hardened inquisitor. “I ask you again, Donacella Castellano, have you used this flesh” I roughly grope one of Alison's breasts and squeeze the firm mound until she winces, “to turn the eyes of young Christian gentlemen?”

“No... no, My Lord ... not on purpose...” She tugs futilely on the chains binding her wrists, but I hear the uncertainty in her tone. I can just imagine some sanctimonious inquisitor seizing on this poor young woman's doubts.

“Do you think you are beautiful, Donacella Castellano?” Before she can answer I tilt her head up so her hazel eyes have to meet mine. “Answer truthfully me dear, your eternal soul is hanging by a thread.” My other hand is still on her breast but it is no longer groping her roughly, instead my fingers caress the soft mound. I love the way her nipple has hardened into a peak that tents the silk of her slip.

“Yes ... your Eminence.” I barely hear the whispered admission and lean in even closer so my face is just an inch from hers.

“When you catch young men admiring you, how does that make you feel?” Before she has a chance to answer I move my hand downwards from her breast until it find the valley between her tightly clenched thighs. “Do you feel a heat, do your sinful loins tingle with lust?”

“Please Your Eminence, I don't want to!” Alison plays the art of the innocent victim of the inquisition perfectly, and squirms desperately as I press my fingers against her pussy. I remember reading an account of one of the trials recorded with attentive diligence by the inquisition scribes. Using this transcription as inspiration I decide that now is the time to raise the stakes.

“My eye-witness swears that you led him into a secret chamber beneath your father's mansion and that on a raised dais you rode the poor soul until you sucked his seed from his loins and into your womb!” It is a vivid mental picture that I am painting, and I wonder if Alison is imagining something as wildly erotic as me.

“What?” I'm not sure if it Alison or the Senorita Castellano who is confused by this outlandish accusation, but I continue to steadily finger her as I describe her alleged coupling.

“This gentleman related in vivid clarity the way your sinful body twisted and jerked as you rode his phallus.” By now I have pulled up her skimpy undergarment and my fingers are pressing insistently against the slick petals of her flower, “This tortured soul was even able to describe the pulsing of your inner muscles as you milked his seed.”

“No!” Her eyes meet mine in wide-eyed shock and horror, “Your Eminence, I have never had a man in me, not like that, I swear.”

“So you did not give birth to this gentleman's son?” She shakes her head as much in confusion as denial. “My eye-witness swears that he watched your belly swell, until just minutes later you squatted like a ewe and birthed his bawling son into a copper basin.”

“My Lord? How is that even possible?” It is a good question, and in a rational court would have likely exonerate the accused, but this is after all the Spanish Inquisition.

“Black magic!” I answer her question with an accusation, “Cabalistic magic, for no sooner had you delivered this unshriven child than a cabal of Rabbis, your father high among them, took the innocent babe and sacrificed the poor thing so they could use it's pure blood for their arcane purposes.” The poor captive stares at me in horror, perhaps at the fate of the fictional child, or more likely because she realizes how much trouble she is in.